The Judas Strain (Sigma Force 4)

"How do you mean transformed?"

"I don't think the patient caught this bug. I think it was a part of his normal bacterial flora. Whatever the man was exposed to out there, it changed the bacterium's biochemistry, altered it's basic genetic structure and made it virulent. Turned it into a flesh-eater."

Lisa still refused to believe it. Not without more proof. "My partner, Dr. Kokkalis, has a portable forensic lab assembled in our suite. If you could—"

Lisa felt something brush the back of her gloved hand. She almost jumped away, startled. But it was only the old man in the bed, reaching again for her. His eyes met hers, desperate. His lips, chapped and cracked, trembled with a dry breath.

Sue . .. Susan . ..

She turned and gripped the man's fingers. Plainly he was still in a delirium, mistaking her for someone else. She squeezed reassurance.

"Susan . . . where's Oscar? 1 can hear him barking in the woods. . ." His eyes rolled back in his head. ". . . barking . . . help him . . . but don't. . . don't go in the water .. ." She felt his fingers go slack in her grip. His eyelids drifted closed, dragging away the brief moment of confused lucidity.

A nurse stepped forward and checked the man's vitals. He was out again.

Lisa tucked his hand back under his blanket.

Lindholm stepped forward, close, invading her space. "This forensics lab of Dr. Kokkalis's. We must gain access to it as soon as possible. In order to confirm or dismiss this wild conjecture by Dr. Barnhardt."

"I would prefer to wait for Monk's return," Lisa said, stepping back. "Some of the equipment is of special design. We will need his expertise to operate it without damage."

Lindholm scowled—not so much at her as life in general. "Fine." He swung away. "Your partner is due back in the next hour. Dr. Barnhardt, in the meantime collect whatever samples you'll need."

A nod by the Dutch toxicologist acknowledged the order—though Lisa noted the slight roll to Barnhardt's eyes as the WHO leader departed. Lisa followed Lindholm out of the room.

Barnhardt called after her. "You will page me when Dr. Kokkalis returns, ja?"

"Of course." She was as anxious as everyone else to discover the truth here. But she also feared they were still barely scratching the surface. Something dreadful was brewing here.

But what?

She hoped Monk would not be gone long.

As she left, she also remembered the patient's last words. Don't . . . don't go in the water. . .

11:53 A M

"We'll have to swim for it," Monk said.

"Are ... are you crazy?" Graff answered as they cowered behind the rock.

Moments ago the pirates' speedboat had ground up against a submerged reef, one of the many that gave rise to the name for this section of island: Smithson's Blight. Out on the water, the gunfire had ended, replaced by the roar of the engine as the boat sought to drag itself free.

Monk had popped his head up to evaluate the scenario, only to almost lose an ear to a sniper's bullet. They were still pinned down, trapped, with nowhere to run—except into the face of the enemy.

Monk bent down and unzipped one of his suit's seals near his shin. He reached through the opening and removed the 9mm Glock from its ankle holster.

Graff's eyes widened as he pulled free the pistol. "Do you think you can take them all out? Hit the gas tank or something?"

Monk shook his head and zipped back up. "You've been watching too many Bruckheimer movies. This peashooter will only serve to get them to duck their heads. Perhaps long enough for us to hit the surf over there."

He pointed to a line of boulders that stretched out into the water. If they could get on the far side, keep the boulders between them and the boat, they might be able to make it around the next point. Then if they could reach the beach on the far side before the pirates freed their boat.. . and if there was some path that led into the island's interior .. .

Damn, that's a lot of ifs. . .

But there was only one certainty here.

They were dead if they stayed shivering like a pair of rabbits.

"We'll have to stay underwater as much as possible," Monk warned. "Maybe we could even take a breath or two if we keep air trapped in our contamination hoods."

Graff's face looked little comforted by this idea. Though the worst of the toxic event was over, the bay remained a poisonous cesspool. Even the gunmen knew better than to leave the safety of their boat. The masked men were using oars to pry the craft off the rocks, rather than climbing in themselves and lightening the load.

If even pirates refused to go into the water . . .

Monk suddenly began to question the wisdom of his own plan. Besides, he hated diving. He was a former Green Beret, not a friggin' Navy SEAL.

"What?" Graff asked, reading something in Monk's expression. "You don't think your plan is going to work, do you?"

"Let a man think already!"

Slumping down, Monk found himself staring back toward the worn Buddha statue under its lean-to, protected by its charred row of prayer sticks. He wasn't Buddhist, but he was not above praying to any god that would get him out of this scrape.

His eyes again settled to the burned prayer sticks. Without turning away, he spoke to Graff. "How did these worshippers get here?" he asked. "There's no village for miles along the coastline, the beach is protected by reefs, and the cliffs appear too sheer to climb."

Graff shook his head. "What difference does it make?"

"Someone lit those prayer sticks. Within the last day or so." Monk shifted up. "Look at the beach. No footsteps but our own. You can see where someone knelt to light their smudge sticks, but no steps head out to the water or along the beach. That means they had to come down from above. There must be a path."

"Or maybe someone just raised and lowered a rope."

Monk sighed, wishing for a more dim-witted companion, someone less able to poke holes in his reasoning.

"Water or Buddha?" Monk asked.

Graff visibly swallowed as the speedboat's engine throttled up. The pirates were almost free.

Graff turned to Monk. "Is . . . isn't it good luck to rub the belly of a Buddha?"

Monk nodded. "I think I read that on a fortune cookie somewhere. 1 hope that Buddha read the same cookie."

Monk shifted around, raising his pistol. "On my count, you haul ass. I'm going to be at your heels, blasting at the boat. You just concentrate on getting to that Buddha and finding that path."

"And I'll pray the worshippers didn't use a rope to—"

"Don't say it or you'll jinx us!"